


An Illusion of Intimacy

by ossseous (ozean)



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bathroom Sex, Casual Sex, Frottage, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Nipple Play, Non-Penetrative Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-28
Updated: 2017-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-05 23:13:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11023596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ozean/pseuds/ossseous
Summary: The times when chance and opportunity converged and allowed their paths to cross. Always at some gala, some press conference, some fundraiser, and only when convenient. Clark wouldn’t have it any other way. Anymore than that and well, then the whole song and dance would be something completely different.





	An Illusion of Intimacy

He wasn’t quite sure what possessed him in those seconds that passed between the heavy sound of the door swinging shut and the sucking kisses that trailed, wet and warm and nipping, right down his throat.

It started before that, always before. Usually earlier in the night, when people were laughing over champagne flutes and rubbing the right elbows and flashing bleached teeth at arm candy and glorified trust fund heirs.

But it always prickled through him, shoving its way through the crowd like some kind of sixth sense. The second he felt it, he searched. As discreetly as he could manage, he would glance about the room until he found where Bruce stood, always leaning over, always whispering in some beautiful woman’s ear.

He didn’t allow himself to feel things like jealousy in those seconds. What would have been the point? But those eyes, they always stayed settled on him, focused and unrelenting. Bruce had a way of affecting a slightly bored look that was somehow still capable of stripping a person bare, right past every lie and every insecurity and every single desire. Past layers and layers and down to the person underneath, the core to be chipped away at. Bruce saw that core in him right from the beginning and Clark didn’t like that.

And it had been years since.

Not that they fucked a ton in those years. Only every now and then, here and there. The times when chance and opportunity converged and allowed their paths to cross. Always at some gala, some press conference, some fundraiser, and only when convenient. Clark wouldn’t have it any other way. Anymore than that and well, then the whole song and dance would be something completely different.

Whatever their little thing could be called, it always fluttered underneath the public parts of their relationship. The parts that everyone else saw and knew. Clark’s articles decrying the corruption running rampant through Wayne Enterprises and Bruce’s succinct return statements. Comments blended with equal parts amusement and bitter vitriol. He always knew just the right way to keep Clark searching for more. Label him a liar, a sensationalist, or the most recent—a corn-fed mama’s boy looking to make a splash—and Clark couldn’t resist chasing after him each and every time.

Before their thing, Clark hadn’t really known how a relationship could be so deeply embedded in making every scarce second count. That the endless desperation for time could change everything, make those seconds quick, rough.

Before he had only known gentle kisses, the slow realization of love blooming under careful attention and slow care. Bashful smiles hidden quickly away under a well-worn comforter, eyes full of love peaking above the hem.

But it’s not love he saw in Bruce’s eyes. If it was, maybe he’d run away, never type Bruce Wayne’s name ever again. It was just a hunger. Hunger from that first time, when lips smashed into his own and hands fumbled with his belt. When words mumbled a warning to him as he yanked that tie loose, when hands dragged his hips, pulled him closer and his breath hitched.

And hunger ever since. Hunger in that moment, so plain to see before the bathroom stall even slammed shut behind him. Something to close them off from the people, the party, the bad band playing and the not so bad hors d’oeuvres, and most importantly, the world around them. All echoes, all melting away.

All he could do was laugh, breathless and unsurprised when Bruce plucked disdainfully at his press pass and with then, with as little ceremony as possible, nudged him and turned him to face the stall door.

He didn’t have to turn if he didn’t want to. Sometimes he didn’t. But then, at that precise moment, he wanted to. Wanted to press his cheek against the cool metal as his pants got pulled down and his shirt got rucked up and a vaguely appreciative hand brushed down his spine. He watched the little spread of fog across the metal door as it pulsed out, renewed with each gust of breath he took. Watched it until he got yanked back, suddenly and only for a moment. He had to laugh at the careless brashness of his legs getting pushed as far apart as they could get with his ankles trapped. But the laugh died the second he found himself tilting forward. He had to fight the urge to turn his cheek, to rub it against the hand that gripped hard into his shoulder, that nudged face back to the door with surprising gentleness.

But there wasn’t anything gentle about what followed. Not that it hurt. But gentle would’ve been nice every now and again. Maybe nicer than the push of a bare cock between his thighs just before a shoe, a nice brown wingtip well-polished and reflecting those hideous florescent lights, nudged his legs back together.

Clark braced his arms against the door, dropped his head, let it bow enough to watch each and every thrust he got. To watch the fingers that squeezed into his hips. To watch the head of Bruce’s cock as it slipped so easily in and out, catching only against the hair on his thighs, heavy drops of precum smearing, matting it flat against his skin until suddenly, Bruce shifted.

And then all Clark could feel or think about or focus on was the way his cock slid so teasingly against his perineum. He dropped a hand from the door to take his own cock in hand, stuttering out an airy sob as Bruce’s cock nudged up against his balls and for an unspeakable second, he wondered what it would feel like to be full of him—how good it would feel to have that cock inside of him, shoving into him, leaving him raw and wanting nothing else but that slide of skin.

Part of him wondered why neither of them were ever more prepared for a nice, thorough fuck like that. It wasn’t as though he never knew the Bruce Wayne would be in attendance and he doubted Bruce was clueless about which members of the press would be allowed in. But being prepared meant admitting things he felt certain that neither of them wanted to admit. Like it was something they looked forward to. Like it was something they wanted.

So he settled for the hard snap of hips against his ass, rhythmic and perfectly in time with each stroke of his fist on his own cock.

But then the world got turned upside down. Or more like, right side up, as a grip, cruel in the knots of his shoulders, yanked him up once more to stand up straight. With a push against his back, he stumbled that half step closer to the door to press his chest, his stomach, his hips against that cold metal. Not yet warmed by their heavy breaths, their searing body heat that beaded sweat down his spine.

His muscles seized against the contact and it left him nothing to do but grab the top and hold on as the thrusts got faster, harder, a relentless shove threatening to push him over every single time. And yet, each one was almost forgettable, hidden away behind how much more he could feel the warm breath rolling across his shoulder, the burn of stubble that followed it, further marred and picked at, agitated by the sharp scrape of teeth.

The things he would feel for hours, maybe days, but never long enough to tide him over until their next encounter.

Finally, he surrendered his thoughts entirely, let himself shudder against that feeling. He shut his eyes against the lips that pinched almost too hard at his ear lobe, let his mouth fall slack as arms wrapped around his chest. The sounds that fell free just gasps, wet and broken and quiet under the groans that echoed against his ear as Bruce finally shoved against him one last time, emptying his pleasure eagerly between the tight clench of his legs.

Just like that, things settled back into place.

Clark wet his dry lips as Bruce extracted himself, arms unraveling from him with careful measure as Clark parted his legs, let him step back.

He shut his eyes only a moment before he heard the gradual sounds of tidying, the rustle of fabric, a zipper inching its way up. Clark turned to face him then, scoffing at the sight of Bruce halfway through tucking his shirt back in. Bruce aimed a look at him. It probably could have said many different things, but mostly it just said _what did you expect?_

“Are you kidding me?”

He couldn’t maintain much seriousness with his own pants still around his ankles, but he effectively crowded Bruce back, hand planted firming against his chest until he finally sat, quite reluctantly, on the toilet seat.

Words didn’t need to be said as Clark settled, not without some awkward maneuvering, overtop his thighs. He grabbed Bruce’s shirt, pulled it up to expose the smooth planes of his abs, his chest. He kept it pushed up, bunching just under his chin, confined by his suit jacket and tie.

He wondered what kind of marks he would leave behind as he gripped his cock once more with free hand. He bit his lip against the feeling of hands as they tucked just behind his knees, slipped ever so slowly up along the backs of his thighs. They encouraged him along as he let go of the too expensive fabric and braced his hand flat against his chest. Fingers fluttered almost too lightly up over his hips as he rocked them. He got lost in his own set rhythm, almost didn’t feel as those hands inched up, spreading flat over his stomach, smoothing over his ribs.

He looked down, locked eyes with the man below him, gasped out as calloused fingers massaged into his chest and finally, mercilessly, kneaded his nipples. It was enough to push him, panting and shuddering over the ache of his orgasm. He spilled across Bruce’s stomach, shutting his eyes tight as Bruce worked him through it, tension taking hold of every muscle in his body until finally, slowly, he let himself relax.

Bruce pulled away, settling his hands atop his thighs, giving them something resembling an encouraging squeeze and that was Clark's cue. He stood, not quite so interested in basking in the afterglow. Instead he ripped off some toilet paper and tossed it in Bruce’s general direction.

“Gee, thanks,” he heard as he pulled his dockers back up. He started on his buttons, watching as Bruce wiped his stomach clean.

And perhaps it should have been more awkward. Maybe if they hadn’t done something similar countless times before it would have been. But Bruce just stood as well. No matter how much tidying they did, he knew there was no hiding how much of a mess they made. Perhaps it was apt in that way, some kind of cosmic joke to remind them that there was no universe where something they felt like hiding could be anything but a mess.

When he went to turn, stall already unlatched and all, Bruce did tug him back around. He didn’t know what he really expected but it wasn’t for Bruce to reach out, straighten his tie, smooth his collar down. It was a gentleness he was rarely afford that he never really got used to. Probably something he didn’t want to get used to, for fear of what? That he might come to hope for it? More than that, he felt unmoored by how for maybe just half a second there, Bruce looked relaxed. Soft almost, like the lines etched in his face weren’t as unforgivingly deep, like the bags under his eyes weren’t so heavy, like the gray at his temples were just age and not from a lifetime of pain. An illusion, he knew.

But Clark couldn’t even mutter a “thanks” before Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. It was a pretty routine move he’d seen him do a million times when he palled around with billionaires or buddied up to news anchors. And with that and nothing more, he swept out past Clark and through the bathroom door.

**Author's Note:**

> i s2g i proofed this like 5 times but please let me know if you spot any errors.
> 
> im on tumber at ossseous


End file.
